Iron City, Steel Chains
by Spiritual Salmon
Summary: St. Canard was a festering cesspool of scum and villainy, Drake wouldn't deny that. He couldn't, not when he's spent four years as the masked vigilante known as Darkwing and has only just begun to chip away at the cities rough exterior! And now, when he has too much to lose, a new challenger enters the ring. And they're out for blood.


St. Canard stunk of piss and ash — complimentary gifts from the numerous factories lining the bay. Meanwhile, towering behemoths of steel and iron watched over the residents below, protected by their guardian angels, devilish beasts reflected by the residents in such towers. The stark difference in wealth was a sight to see. As the wealthy lined their pockets and admired their appearance in the shine of their balcony windows, a quarter to half of St. Canard's population lived off every paycheck they could scrape together. Legal or otherwise.

Robin Peckner, dressed in a pressed button-up and plain black slacks, narrowed his eyes as he caught his mind wandering, gazing out from the small diner window offered in one such crappy establishment on 34th Street downtown St. Canard. Crappy it may be, but their food was cheap, their coffee strong, and the cook was a good friend of his cousin who lived in a lovely town over.

"This city has its charm," the cook responded when he asked why the hell he stayed in this shithole. Robin shrugged but never asked again.

In this town, to live by your own rules was suicide. Best to let the dreamers die trying.

"I'm telling ye, Matty, she's the one!"

"You said that last month. Where's the girl now, in a sewer?"

In walked two dead beats, one packing a beer belly and the other too skinny to keep his pants up, both hiding beneath three-piece layer suits in the summer heat. Gray, simple, and stylish; makes for good cover sneaking around smoky alleyways or hazy nights on the town. Robin should know, looking up as the two men bumbled their way into the booth's second seat. It was a regular occurrence he partook with the two _gentlemen_.

"Matthew, Charles." Robin nodded to the two and raised the coffee to his lips. Beer belly grunted.

"Pecker."

"Hey," Matthew swatted his _friend_. "Last time you promised you'd be more polite."

"I responded to his damn greeting, didn't I?" Charles folded his arms over his stomach, the suit visibly stretching to match the curvature of his belly. Matthew attempted to tuck his shirt back into place while making quick, hesitant eye contact with the waitress, "We ain't gonna be partnered with him for much longer, so I shouldn't have to be making any effort."

Robin rolled his eyes and placed the mug with considerable deliberateness down onto the napkin. Not a stain on his white shirt nor the table. The need to keep himself immaculate was almost a necessity, a quirk that had dominated his childhood and made every little imperfection stand out like a sore thumb. It nearly drove Robin mad sometimes, this urge.

"You've spared no effort; I can promise that." He replied, earning himself a glare from the man an arm's length away. God, he could even smell his breath from here.

Their waitress' arrival interrupted any cutting response the other would have made as she stared down the two on the opposite booth, fist balled around a ballpoint pen, no paper, only a sharp memory under that deep-fried blonde hair.

"What'll it be?"

Charles waves a hand at her, indifferent in her demeanor towards him. "House special, hold the eggs. And make the coffee as black as my heart, sweetie." He chuckled at his joke. Unlike Robin, she smirked, but it wasn't a kind smile.

"Uh," Matthew hesitated, glasses starting to fog. Under the table, his hands had begun to shake. "Just a coke, please."

Charles shook his head. "I don't know why you drink that crap."

But the waitress nodded to the nervous man, her cold front melting at his attempt to make up for his partner's rudeness, "I'll get that for you right away, Matty." She said kindly and disappeared into the back kitchen, as there were no other customers to serve.

Just the three of them alone in a crappy diner in the center of town.

Lo-and-behold, Charles coughed into his fist, clearing his throat. "So, the boss has a job for us."

There it was, the whole reason for this impromptu meeting: another mission from the director, whether it be a simple stake-out or bodyguard duty. A glaring problem, Robin felt, was he had no King John or Sheriff of Nottingham cast as the villain, just a citizen down on their luck or some schmuck with a head up their ass. Charles wouldn't be down as Little John, anyway. And Matthew as Maid Marian-

Ew. Simple as that.

Humming, Robin leaned a cheek on his palm. "The usual?"

Matthew shook his head. "There's this Vegas tycoon who has a spare mansion over in the Hills, on the divide between St. Canard and Duckburg. Supposedly he has something valuable from the Colombo family, and they're itching to get it back soon."

"Wish you meant that lovable detective, Matt."

Charles snorted, then pounded his fist onto the table. "Damn, where are my pancakes?"

"They were planning a hit on him, but here's where we come in. The boss met with the Columbos, and they agreed to split fifty/fifty. All we have to do is fake a rescue, fail, and wait for the profits to roll in. He's the nephew of Scrooge McDuck. You heard me right. The Scrooge McDuck!" Matthew threw his hands up, oblivious to the wide-eyed stare Robin sent his way. "We're going to make so much money off this dude's ransom."

Robin held both his hands held out imploringly. "Wait-" He began.

But Charles cut him off.

"Are you serious, man? This is it. No more graveyard."

"The money, Robin!" Matthew exclaimed again.

"This is our retirement, our big break. Say goodbye to working sixty, maybe seventy hours a week. Say hello to plenty of vacation days and only having to work part-time because you're so stacked."

"You're talking about kidnapping," Snapped Robin, and he felt a headache forming. This isn't-

Charles hissed, pushing himself up onto the table by his elbows and leaning in closer to his difficult compatriot, who leaned away from that horrible beer stench wafting from the man's body. Charles seemed not to get the memo, ignoring the man's reaction to his presence or not aware enough of his own drinking habits. Either could be the case.

"S.H.U.S.H-"

Suddenly he plopped back into his seat, silence overcoming him just as their waitress exited the back. Placing the mug down first, she tossed the plate of pancakes and hash browns in front of Charles; the coke Matthew ordered receiving a much more gentle treatment. The coffee's aroma was a comforting scent to Robin's nostrils.

She looked over to him. "Can I fill that up for you?"

He jerked a nod, "Yea."

_Pop_

The waitress blew a wad of gum as she moved to grab the pot of coffee. Robin managed to tear his eyes away from her, and they landed on Charles. Charles who was already looking right back, staring at him with wide, beady eyes. Black as his coffee and black as his soul.

_Pop_

A steamy cup of joe was before him. Robin thanked her, so did Matthew with a bashful smile, and she retreated into the kitchen again like a clockwork puppet.

Charles was still staring, "You're thinking about backing out."

That got Matthews attention, "What?"

"Listen, Rob. Robby," Charles tested the name on his tongue and found himself wanting, "You've been working for S.H.U.S.H for how many years? Eight? Nine?"

It was ten, and the bastard knew it after reading his file.

Charles tutted, "Only thirty and you've been working for this organization for that long. Our business is on top of the world, and all the competition is gone, Rob. And that vigilante, Darkwhatever-" He sneered and waved a hand, the simple statement enough to reveal his opinion on St. Canard's masked vigilante.

"What's your shtick here?"

Robin felt he knew though, the realization just dawning on him how fucked he was.

This isn't what he signed up for.

"You have a cousin, don't you? Who lives in Duckburg, on Lumbree and 32nd Avenue? She's got two fantastic kids, and that wife of hers," Charles was slowing digging away at his food, and Matthew kept watching him while drinking from his bottle, "Ohhh, boy. Fable, was that her name?"

"Yea, Fable," Matthew nodded.

"Nice girl, she snagged herself a good catch."

Robin tugged a hand through ginger hair, messing the clean-cut and adding the first imperfection to his appearance.

"S.H.U.S.H might have to detain your cousin until you cooperate with us," Matthew, the skinny kid with too little spine, sighed after his mouth left the bottle with a final audible _pop_ and set it back down onto the table, "And you can forget about going to the police."

Charles chuckled into his hash browns, his mouth stuffed full, "They can't do a damn thing to us, anyway."

But Robin was coming to find that Matthew may have more spine than he initially believed, the snake he was. The two men didn't care about him, about the individual. They were only in it for greed. And while his partner gobbled down his damn food, Matthew's eyes repeatedly flickered to the side in disgust. It looks like true love was real.

_'You're in too deep.'_

That was it — Robin's condemnation.

He could run away, that option was very tempting, but that would put the safety of his only remaining family at risk and break the heart of Fable in the process. Robin couldn't afford that. St. Canard was surrounded by a dirty bay on one side and hazardous mountainsides on the other, more safely guarded by the forces of mother nature than the original capital of Rome. It was just them, and Duckburg, both trapped between a hard place and the ocean. This factor removed Robin's option of escaping with his cousin's family in tow, as a plane, boat, or train could be tracked in seconds thanks to the advanced technology S.H.U.S.H had at its disposal.

"Hey."

Robin, who had been staring into his half-empty mug of coffee, looked up to meet Matthew's eyes. Matthew smiled, but it just didn't look right. Like the man was wearing a mask. Although Robin had a knack for seeing the true nature of man this morning, it was too late. If only he had the ability when he was a stupid twenty-year-old, trying to escape the poverty that dominated the lower streets of St. Canard.

"We aren't moving out till tonight. How about you go and visit your cousin, tell her I said hi?"

And that's just what Robin did, sans the final request, hailing a taxi once he stepped foot into the crowded city center and booking it towards the only place he had the stomach to call home. It was a startling realization that the people he worked for were as foul as the criminals they arrested.

He thought he'd have a fresh start when signing up at the recruitment stand on the edge of one of the many city streets. The homeless would park their carts near that area. Regrettably, they were probably paid to do that by S.H.U.S.H recruiters looking to gain sympathy from the masses if seen with open palms and plentiful wallets. It certainly worked on him, considering the lapdog he had become over the years.

The ride over to Fable's was a thoughtful one. Robin spent the two hours it took to get out of the city, over the bridge, and through the bustling metropolis of Duckburg in deep contemplation, composing plan after plan of failed escape attempts. It was a fruitless endeavor, for Charles and Matthew had him cornered. The kidnapping would happen tomorrow, and there wasn't enough time to get everyone out of the area.

Damn it, damn them! He smashed a fist against the back head of the passenger seat, startling the driver.

"Buddy, don't do anything you're going to have to pay for." The driver said.

Though not polite, their tone stank of concern for Robin's well being. Grunting out a sorry, he turned to observe the daily life of the average civilian. What ignorance must they live with?

To not realize that the system of governance was corrupt, from the head of the beast to the very earth it walked on.

Metropolitan districts turned into business strips and soon even those devolved into the suburbs Robin found the taxi turning on, freshly mowed lawns and cookie-cutter houses stretching for what seemed like miles to the human eye. Children played in the street, basketballs and bikes aplenty, and he swore he could hear the melody of an ice cream truck a few blocks away. It was different. Nice, but different.

Sure, St. Canard had its own suburban culture, but the houses here were too big, the grass too green, and the children too happy. When entering Duckburg Robin wondered if such superstitious television programs like the Twilight Zone were real or merely fictional. The divide between cities was a slap to the face, the lone bridge connecting the two serving as a cross-dimensional portal.

They soon stopped in front of one of the many two-story houses that populated the neighborhood, and Robin paid for his services. He watched as the mass of real estate property absorbed the car, and only once it was out of sight did he turn to the porch and walk up its wooden steps to the front door. Robin could hear laughter from somewhere inside the house.

Before he could even knock, the door swung open.

"Dad," a woman said, mirth evident in her voice. "That's not how you welcome guests."

And there was his uncle, J. Gander Hooter, standing in the doorway and grinning at his cousin like she was his pride and joy, which she should be, the beautiful and intelligent woman she was. All three of them shared an affinity for ginger hair. However, the younger pair were gifted with an impressive six-foot range height, while Hooter stood at a measly five foot two which made for timeless teasing material.

Robin plastered on a grin. "Uncle Hoot, back in town! I didn't know you were stopping by?"

"Neither did I, but I was in the neighborhood and decided _why the hell not?_ The office sent me all the way over to Duckburg, and they expect me not to visit my daughter? The best thing is that I'm getting paid by the hour!" He finished with a laugh and a slap to the knee.

Fable bent over and kissed her father on the cheek. "The kids love it when you're over. You too, Robby."

"Hey, I'll always have time for you guys." Robin said as he walked into the house and his cousin's arms, "I was just hoping that the weird old man wouldn't steal all the affection."

"Hmm, is that why I didn't receive a proper hello? Jealousy?"

Rolling his eyes, Robin obliged his cousin, kissing her left and right cheek in quick succession. "Hello."

Her laughter sounded like tinkling wind chimes, "Always the clean freak, cousin of mine."

The patter of footsteps was the only warning Robin received. Like beats on a drum, they signaled the arrival of his impending doom, low, sock-muffled thumps reverberating off the wooden floor of the house.

"Forget clean," Samanda, his cousin's wife, pounced from behind and wrapped two toned arms around Robin, her head barely reaching his chin. "If I weren't already married to a bombshell of a lady I'd sling you over my shoulder and carry you off into the sunset. The X rated movies we could make! I'd be swimming in gold like gramps in his mansion, oh, you wait till I'm old and rich like him."

"At my age, getting lucky means finding my car in the parking lot, if you know what I mean." Hooter waggled his eye-brows at his daughter in law, and they both shared a laugh.

Robin considered the man one, if not the only, individual to be untouched by greed in the establishment that was S.H.U.S.H headquarters. While the tales the older man would regale the children with were exciting, and P.G. rated, considering the man was nothing more than a pencil pusher who was known to see none of the action in the field, these adventures revealed the fundamentals of Hooter's character. Most importantly, they told of his rebellion.

He could tell him; he could tell him everything. The rotting state that Jarvis gladly led S.H.U.S.H. too, the depraved nature of his partners, or the fact that tomorrow he's going to sit back and watch a man be driven helpless before his very eyes because he can't muster up the courage to say _'go to hell.'_

It makes for an odd morality.

Samanda let go of his person and stepped back, extending an arm around Fable's middle. "None of you have eaten, my fair knights, and I believe it's time for a feast."

* * *

_"Police say the suspect, thirty-one year old Jeffery Dahmer has confessed to the killings of eleven people whose remains were found in his apartment. In an affidavit submitted in court, police say Dahmer drugged and strangled the victims, then dismembered their bodies. Boiling some of their skulls to preserve them. So far, only one victim has been identified. The court records show that Dahmer took photographs while they were still alive and after they were dead. Bail for the suspect has been set at one million dollars. He will remain in jail-"_

"That bastard better," Hooter muttered into his mug of ice tea.

The four of them sat around a small table, the tv on and news footage detailing the grisly murders of the dubbed Milwaukee Cannibal much to Fable's dismay.

"We could always put on some Cheers? I'm sure Ted Danson isn't wanted for serial murder." The other three were enraptured by the tv, "Hm, no? Then I'll see what Pete and Christopher are up to. I can't stand to watch this anymore."

With that, Fable made a scene as she stood up from the table and stomped out to find her two sons, annoyance evident in her demeanor.

Robin looked over to Samanda. She shrugged, "Sorry about that. While crime may be the same over in St. Canard, here in Duckburg things have been steadily growing worse."

"There's that new hero, Gizmo_Duck_?" Offered Hooter, who watched as Samanda rolled her eyes. Leaning back into her chair, she flicked a stray piece of brown hair back behind her, and he continued, "Only been operating for a few months, I hear."

"Just what we need, crazies attracting more crazies."

"You seem very opinionated about this topic."

"Well look what's happened," Samanda responded to Hooter, waving a hand at the empty hallway, "Fable's terrified for the kids. And I heard when Darkwing showed up, those nuts calling themselves the Fearsome Four were soon to follow."

Robin was quick to pipe in about his home turf, "Some of those guys were probably nuts since the day they were conceived."

"Comforting."

She didn't look too happy with her arms crossed and a frown gracing her features. Samanda sighed and tried to unwind; she really did. Planting her head on the table and allowing her arms to hang, two pairs of eyes glanced questionably at her.

"I guess," she paused and closed her eyes, "I want to go back to those days, ya know? When the geezer would leave his mansion, and the two towns thrived off of his generosity. At least there weren't men wearing armored tanks and masked demons roaming the streets."

"Scrooge's generosity had a limit." Fable had returned, and she sat next to her wife.

Outside the house, Robin could hear Pete and Christopher's antics, the older of the two yelling at Christopher to give him back his toy. In the mid-afternoon, where children previously outdoors were now enjoying the neighborhood pool down the street, the two boys were the only ones to disturb the silence that had overtaken the four members at the table.

"We cannot ignore it, Scrooge's absence created a vacuum. The man was careless." Setting his cup down, Robin's uncle laced his fingers together. Always thinking, always planning, as if it was as simple as breathing. Samanda looked up.

"I know that." She said.

"But it would be unwise to question the sanity of the one protecting your city. When examining 's faults, is it hard to consider that the state we live in today is a concept of nurture?"

"I don't think you're talking about Gizmo here, Pop."

This got Fable to snort and say, "Dad, it's not like you personally know Darkwing."

The kids were getting progressively louder at this point, and Pete and Christopher were engaged in battle. Every household in a mile radius could probably hear their screaming.

"Hey!" Samanda shouted, getting up from her chair and heading out to separate her kids. Fable moved to follow, flashing Robin and her father an apologetic glance.

"It'd be nice if you did. At least someone could protect you."

Alone, it was just the two of them at the table now, and Robin was tired of cowering. One last shot, one more chance to dream wouldn't hurt? Besides, it was a beautiful day.

"Uncle?" He soon had Hooter's undivided attention, "I need you to send a message for me."

Strange, Robin never really regarded the weather before.

"You're connected, you've gotta know someone even if it ain't Drakwing."

And he told him everything.

* * *

**Notes:** I've got this story boiled down to twelve chapters, a rewrite of an old (week old) story that I had started. The other had no flow, no plot line! I was writing blind. However, I want to thank all of the people who read/commented/and or liked Son of St. Canard! Love you guys. I guess I had to hit the ground running somewhere, and now this is where I've ended up.

For myself and any readers, I'll be updating on a strict weekly schedule. Due to living in the Pacific Northwest, the next update will be on 7/11 :3


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